


Thoughts That Count

by ll_again



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aborted Sexytimes, Aborted Weddings, John is a Saint, M/M, Mostly Humor But Sort Of Serious, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Is A Revisionist Historian, Sherlock Is Bad At Appropriate Attire, Sherlock Is Not Subtle, Toasters as Metaphor, married ones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-20
Updated: 2016-09-20
Packaged: 2018-08-16 05:05:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8088397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ll_again/pseuds/ll_again
Summary: It comes as zero surprise to anyone that Sherlock is the worst at giving gifts. John suffers a lot of questionable gifts for the sake of a few good ones.





	

They spend their first date running, literally, through the streets of London, chasing a cab on foot. At the end of it, Sherlock gifted John a police badge stolen from DI Lestrade.

_"That wasn't even a date," John always says, whenever Sherlock talks about it. "It shouldn't count."  
"Of course it was," Sherlock replies, flicking his fingers dismissively. "We had a candle."_

The first proper present that Sherlock gave John was a flatmate gift; Mrs Hudson's idea, naturally. John found the plain cardboard box on the bed the day after he finished unpacking and was eyeing it uncertainly when his phone dinged twice in quick succession.

It's a present.  
SH

Welcome to Baker Street.  
SH

The pair of scissors he'd been using to open boxes was still sitting on his nightstand, and John grabbed them, slitting open the tape holding the box closed. John was lifting out the pair of rubber gloves and a half-empty bottle of 'winter spice' scented thick bleach when his phone dinged again.

It's your turn to clean the toilets.  
SH

_"Does that make our second date the circus?" John asks one day. "Wait. Were you actually asking me out?"_  
_"Rude of you to bring along someone else," Sherlock says, eyes glinting with humor. He bends to brush his lips over John's cheek, just barely touching, before he's slinking off like a panther after its prey._  
_Something clicks in John's mind. "You were jealous!" he accuses to Sherlock's back, grinning when Sherlock scoffs, extra loudly, in response._

Sherlock gave John his charge card a few weeks after they moved in together. Technically it was a loan, not a gift, but John initially forgot to give it back. He tried to do so some months later, when he found it tucked in his wallet.

"Keep it," Sherlock said, fingers steepled in front of his face as he stared at something on John's laptop screen. John frowned at him and meant to protest, but Sherlock cut him off before he could utter a peep. "I have another. Keep that one. You may need it."

His finances were still stretched to the limit at that point and even an oblique reminder pinched John's brow, but he returned the card to his wallet. It hadn't taken long for him to learn which arguments with Sherlock were best left alone.

John started to leave the room, but Sherlock's voice stopped him. "Since you're going out, I need a few things."

"What makes you think I'm going out?" John said, stubbornly ignoring the fact that he'd just been thinking about popping to the store.

"I made a list." One white hand reached down to the desk, retrieved a slip of paper and snapped back up, holding it between two fingers. "Charge it to my card." Other than the motions of his hand, Sherlock didn't budge from his perusal of whatever it was that held him enraptured.

John gaped at him for a moment, then gave into the inevitable and stepped back across the room to retrieve the list. The inevitable was something else he'd picked up quickly.

"We're also out of biscuits," Sherlock said just as John opened the door.

John stopped on the threshold. "Is that my laptop?" he said. Sherlock didn't even bother to dignify that with a reply. "I changed the bloody password!"

"Yes," Sherlock said. "I know."

_Without fail, Sherlock trembles every time he slides the coat off of John's shoulders. Every time. Whether it's in the dark of the bedroom that used to be just Sherlock's, at the coat check of one of those fancy dos that they get invited to now and then, or any place in between, Sherlock trembles. Not just in his hands; John feels the tremors up Sherlock's arms, feels them shiver through his torso, and imagines that they extend all the way down to his toes. They never mention it though, because both of them know exactly why Sherlock suffers this affliction.  
The first time Sherlock helped John shed his coat, there was a bomb strapped underneath._

John slammed the book down on the table hard enough to rattle Sherlock's collection of lab equipment. "Really?"

Sherlock didn't look up from his microscope. "Happy Christmas, John."

"I don't need this," John sputtered, gesturing to Sherlock's gift – a self-help book on relationships. "Why the hell would you look at this and think of me?"

"What happened to the boring teacher?" Sherlock asked shrewdly, finally glancing up.

John gaped at him for a minute, mouth opening and closing a few times like a landed fish. Finally, he managed to get out a strangled sound, but even that seemed like a huge effort on his part. Spinning on his heel, John stalked off, leaving his gift behind, and muttering something about there being 'no books for handling idiotic, genius, _utter wanker_ flatmates'.

Unnoticed by John, Sherlock smirked at the retreating behind of his blogger before he returned to his experiments.

_"Boxing Day, at least," John says in exasperation._  
_Sherlock groans and flops sideways, head landing in John's lap. "Mycroft will be there," he replies, face pressed against John's thigh. "Tell them we're going to your sister's."_  
_It's John's turn to groan, one only partially inspired by Sherlock's stubborn refusal to visit his parents over the holiday. "If I tell them that," he says, "then we'll have to go to Harry's."_  
_Sherlock rolls onto his back and grins up at John. "Not if we tell her that we're going to Mummy and Dad's."_  
_John thinks about that for a second. "That's bloody brilliant."_

After he returned Irene Adler's file to Mycroft, John went upstairs and found the ashtray Sherlock had nicked from Buckingham Palace on his pillow. His phone dinged.

Thank you.  
SH

Three days later, Mycroft called and politely 'suggested' that John return the ashtray, as it was property of the Crown and they really wanted it back.

_"The pair of you," John says with a chuckle. "Just like a couple of boys. I don't know why I put up with either of you." He folds down his paper just in time to see the panic flash over Sherlock's face at that last statement. John sets it on the coffee table and turns in his seat on the couch so he's facing the detective._  
_Sherlock watches him from the corner of his eye. "You really shouldn't, you know," he says. "Especially-"_  
_"Idiot," John says fondly, snaking a hand behind the other man's head and dragging him close enough to settle his mouth fully on Sherlock's parted lips._

Mrs Hudson absolutely insisted that John allow her to throw him a birthday party. Sherlock refused to have anything to do with his own birthday, and the kindly landlady was so heartbroken about it that John could hardly deny her when his rolled around.

"Sucker," Sherlock told John when he heard.

Mrs Hudson was nothing if not thorough in her hostessing duties. Without checking with John, she invited his sister. Harry, wonder of wonders, turned up. She even claimed she was off the sauce, but John had heard that too many times before to really believe it, so he only gave her a tight smile and some vague words of encouragement without actually expecting they would make a difference.

Sherlock attended as well. Mostly by default, as they held the party in his living room, and Sherlock rarely went out unless he had a case. But he did register his protest of the disruption by coming out in his pajamas and robe, ignoring Mrs Hudson's tutting as he passed John a wrapped package.

John waited until everyone had cleared out to confront Sherlock about his gift. "What is this?" he said, shaking the jar at his flatmate. The grotesque thing floating inside sloshed around sluggishly.

"Fetal puppy," Sherlock said, squinting at it dispassionately. "Eight weeks old, going from the size."

John gaped at him for a moment. "Where did you-? No, never mind that. You nearly frightened the life out of my sister with this thing."

Sherlock's eyes crinkled in a sly smile. "Happy birthday, John."

_"What's the best thing I've ever given you?" Sherlock demands suddenly, interrupting the sleepy silence. His eyes are closed, and he's tracing his fingertips over John's skin. This is his new thing, seeing without his eyes.  
John huffs out a laugh as long fingers trip over his ribs. "I can name the _ worst _thing."_

"It’s what people do, don’t they – leave a note?"

When Sherlock fell, he took John's entire world with him.

_"I'm sorry," Sherlock murmurs, lips brushing John's temple. "I'm so sorry." He plants a kiss on the crease between John's eyes, where worry and stress has made its mark. He repeats his litany like a mantra as his lips touch the edges of John's mouth, and paints the words along the whole length of his collarbone._  
_John slides a hand up the nape of Sherlock's neck and tangles his hand in the curly hair, cradling his skull gently as Sherlock tucks his forehead against John's bare shoulder._  
_"I know," John says. "I forgive you. I'll always forgive you."_

Sherlock gave John two gifts for his wedding to Elaine Gardiner. There was the traditional one, wrapped neatly (by Mrs Hudson, naturally), and placed among the pile. The other was not a gift that John appreciated until much, much later – once all his anger had burned off and he was able to think about the events that had transpired.

When the vicar asked if there were any objections, Sherlock stood up.

The worst part of the five-minute rant that ensued was that Sherlock was _right_. Not just about the hundreds of little observations that he insisted on detailing for his horrified but captivated audience. Of course he was right about the little things, but he was also right about the gist of it. John and Elaine were fundamentally unsuited, and everyone in the church knew it. (Although John did think that Sherlock's estimation that their marriage would last less than three months was a bit unfair.)

Elaine's gift to John was a kiss on the cheek rather than the fist to his eye that she so obviously wanted to give him. Then she turned away in a swish of skirts and marched right back down the aisle the way she'd come.

When John approached Sherlock, Greg Lestrade, who'd been sitting next to the detective, scrambled out of the way, nearly bowling Mrs Hudson over in his haste to not get involved in the inevitable confrontation. Sherlock, at least, held his ground, lifting his chin just slightly as John drew near, fists clenched at his sides.

"You-" John said through gritted teeth. Mrs Hudson yelped as John's hands shot out and gripped Sherlock by the lapels of his jacket, dragging him down so they were face to face. " _Timing_ , Sherlock. For fuck's sake." And he stalked off, madder even than he'd been when Sherlock had come back from the dead.

Mary Morstan, John's friend from the surgery, offered to help him return the wedding gifts. A few days after the aborted event, they sat in the sitting room of the bland flat John had taken after Sherlock's death and sorted through the pile.

Mary caught John musing over a package labeled in Sherlock's slanted hand. "I tried to tell Elaine," she said, not without sympathy. "It's always been Sherlock with you. It always will be."

John put the gift to his side and didn't respond. Mary regarded him with a shrewd look that he normally associated with said consulting detective, but didn't press.

Rather than return Sherlock's gift – ostensibly because he didn't deserve to get it back – John shoved it under the coffee table, where it sat for weeks, out of sight unless John was looking at just the right angle. Finally, when he could no longer stand wondering just what Sherlock Holmes thought an appropriate wedding present, John fished out the package and tore away the paper.

It was a toaster. A cheap one. And when John went to plug it in, he discovered it was broken to boot.

The next morning, John banged on the door at 221B. Sherlock answered, and John shoved the toaster into his stomach. "I'm moving back in."

"I'm afraid I turned your bedroom into a meditation chamber," Sherlock said. His long-fingered hands clutched at the toaster that John had yet to release.

John tilted his head at Sherlock in a silent challenge. "Good thing I won't be needing it then."

A smile bloomed on Sherlock's face, and he stepped back to clear the doorway. The toaster, and John, still attached to it, followed him inside.

_Sex, for Sherlock, will never be as interesting as a really good case._  
_"You don't mind?" Sherlock asks, waving his phone, which is displaying a text from Lestrade that promises to be at least an eight._  
_John grits his teeth and falls backwards onto the bed. "No, of course not," he says. And despite the fact that he's been left frustrated more times than he can count, John actually doesn't._  
_Sherlock, already mostly dressed, leans over him suddenly with a maniacal grin and plants a kiss just under John's jawbone. "Make it up to you later," he says into John's ear. Then he's bounding up and sweeping through the room like a cyclone, tossing clothes John's way._  
_"Come_ on _, John," Sherlock says impatiently from the doorway as he ties his scarf around his neck while John is still putting on his pants. His eyes twinkle even in the dim light of their bedroom. "I'd be lost without you."_  
_Throwing on the rest of his clothes, John hurries to join him._  
_Sex is all well and good, John thinks. But he wouldn't trade the rest of it for anything._

John woke up with the feeling that something was off. Nothing disastrous, just a vague feeling of something, similar to the premonitory signs of coming down with a cold. Only this didn't feel quite like that either. John didn't feel bad – just different.

He squinted blearily at the opposite side of the bed, unsurprised to find it empty. Sherlock was always up before him, no matter how late they'd been at it the night before.

Dragging himself to the loo, John was nearly done with his morning ablutions when he noticed the silver band around the third finger of his left hand. His phone dinged in the bedroom, and, still staring at the ring, John went to check it.

It seems the done thing nowadays.  
SH

John stood in the bedroom, blinking down at his phone for a full minute while he debated whether to text back or what. Apparently he took too long to decide, because before he could, his phone dinged again.

Don't say no.

In all the years he'd known the man, Sherlock had never failed to sign a text. "Oh this is ridiculous," John muttered, tossing the phone on the bed. Raising his voice, he yelled, "Sherlock!"

The detective immediately peeked around the edge of the bedroom door. "Mrs Hudson's jealous of Mrs Turner next door, you know," he said. "She wants a matching set."

A smile tugged at John's mouth. "Well, we can't deny Mrs Hudson anything, can we?" Sherlock's eyes glittered as he leaned against the door frame and raked his eyes over John. His partner glanced away for a moment, then met Sherlock's eyes, still smiling. "God, just get over here."

Sherlock crossed the room in three long strides and folded his arms around John. "Sucker," he said just as their mouths met.

_John finds his cane tucked in the back of Sherlock's closet next to the broken toaster while he's rooting around in there looking for the stash of Christmas presents Sherlock has bought for their friends. There's just enough time to swap them out for something suitable before the party they're hosting in the evening.  
John slaps it down on the coffee table, loud enough to jar Sherlock out of his thinking trance. "This," he says. "This is the best gift you ever gave me."_


End file.
